CHAPTER TWO
The Shadow of Duty
The citadel's walls gleamed with veins of crystal, but inside the throne chamber Akhan's mood was stone.He had dismissed the council of tribes, silenced the clamor of the Shamru, and waited in solitude for his brother.
Belial entered like a storm. His steps echoed too loud for the sacred hall, his armor's crimson inlays glowing faintly, as though his very body carried the rage of collapsing stars. He bowed, but his eyes remained fixed on Akhan's, the gaze of a man who would not yield, even to blood.
You summoned me, brother. The thought rippled across the Shamru-link between them. Belial's voice there was iron, sharp and weighted with command.
Akhan rose slowly from the crystalline throne. The people are afraid. The air grows thinner. Hako has doubled the sky-dust, yet it is not enough. Our reserves dwindle. I see panic, Belial. I see it spreading like fire through the Shamru.
Belial's reply came without hesitation. Then let me leave. Let me search the heavens for what we lack.
Akhan's frown deepened. "You ask to abandon your station? Okran is yours to govern. The rebellion has scarred it already. Would you leave your command unhealed?"
Belial's mouth twitched, almost a smile, but bitter. "Okran's chains were forged by your decree, not mine. I commanded as you required. And now the chains have shattered. If you would save Akromos, it will not be by tightening old bonds but by forging new. The gold we need does not lie in Okran's veins any longer. It lies beyond."
The word beyond hung heavy. To leave Akromos was to step into myth, to break the cycle of suns and Shamru that had defined their people since time was memory. Few dared speak it. None had attempted it with purpose.
Akhan's reply was quiet. "If you go, you may not return."
Belial's jaw hardened. "If I stay, you will not endure."
Okran
Okran had once been the jewel of conquest. A planet of dark caverns and endless deposits, its native inhabitants subjugated by Shamite armies, driven into the mines to harvest gold dust that sustained Akromos' skies.
But fire smoldered in darkness. The rebellion began as whispers, then ambushes, then outright slaughter. An entire company of Shamite soldiers disappeared into forbidden caverns. Days later, their armor was found scattered across a sacred hollow, arranged into a mocking effigy.
When news reached Akhan, he ordered reinforcement. But every ship sent returned with fewer men. Some never returned at all. The Shamites had enslaved Okran's people for centuries, and now the planet itself seemed to rise in vengeance.
Belial, stationed there as superintendent, had watched discipline crumble into desperation. His soldiers fought not rebels but shadows. His workers mined under fear, not loyalty. And when the rebellion consumed whole districts, Belial did not crush it, he withdrew.
To Akhan, it had been betrayal. To Belial, it had been inevitability.
Now, standing before his brother, Belial carried that weight openly.
"Okran has chosen its fate," he said aloud, his voice reverberating in the empty chamber. "To chain it further is to waste blood we can no longer spare. Let it go. Let us look outward, not backward."
The Spirit Head's Warning
Reluctantly, Akhan agreed to seek counsel. Together, the brothers journeyed to Truso, where the Spirit Head still lingered, ancient roots clutching fading soil.
They entered the grove at twilight. The trees shimmered faintly with inner light, their crowns stirring though no wind blew. At the center stood the Spirit Head, a colossal trunk split by age into seven branches, its face etched in bark and shadow.
Its voice was not spoken but resounded within their minds, deep as the planet's core.
"Belial, son of Akromos. You would leave this world."
Belial stepped forward, head bowed. "Yes, great Spirit. I would seek gold beyond the stars, to restore our skies and save our people."
The Spirit's eyes, pools of green fire, opened wide. "Then hear the truth. Two futures await you. In the first, you will find a distant world, rich in gold. You will return, and Akromos will endure. In the second, you will find the same world, but remain. You will build anew. And Akromos will fall."
Akhan's fists clenched. "There must be a third path. A certainty."
"There is none," the Spirit replied. "Choice is the fulcrum. Oath is wind; only heart is weight. When the hour comes, Belial's heart will speak. And Akromos will live or die by it."
Belial inhaled sharply. "Then I swear, my heart will not betray my people. I will return."
But even as he spoke, the Spirit Head's leaves rustled with doubt, and Akhan felt unease coil in his chest.
Recruitment on Opal-628
Belial's preparations began at once. Okran could no longer provide its slave miners, so he turned to Opal-628, a worker world orbiting the fringes of Andromeda.
Opal was no jewel. It was a marketplace of flesh and labor, a world where countless species gathered to sell their strength for coin or survival. From the orbiting station, Belial looked down upon its crowded cities: spires of glass above gutters of mud, markets overflowing with workers who would sell decades of life for a day of sustenance.
Here, he recruited sixty thousand. Some were seasoned miners, others farmers, others nothing more than bodies desperate for purpose. Belial promised them work, food, and the chance to join a voyage into myth. Many laughed at the promise, yet hunger overruled doubt.
When the last were registered, Belial stood before them on the platform.
"You are no longer workers," he said, his voice carried through translation orbs into tongues they understood. "You are guardians of Akromos. Your hands will carve gold from distant soil. Your strength will hold the skies of a dying world. And your names will be written in stars."
The crowd roared, some in faith, others in fear. Belial turned away, jaw set. He had given them purpose. Whether he could give them survival was another matter.
The Krausnaut
Akhan did not send Belial into darkness unarmed.
At the shipyards of Kandor, the Krausnaut awaited, a vessel unlike any built before. Its frame was forged of alloys that glimmered like starfire, its hull laced with veins of Shamru itself. Within, it carried entire ecosystems: rivers, groves, beasts of Akromos transplanted to survive in steel. Troju roamed its pastures, Toruks stalked its halls. Its engines mimicked the hearts of suns, consuming light to birth speed beyond comprehension.
And at its core pulsed a living fragment of the Shamru, torn from Akromos' soil and bound to circuitry, a guide, a conscience, a tether to home.
Belial walked its corridors in silence, his generals at his side. Thirty of them, chosen for loyalty and strength, each sworn to maintain order when the vast company awoke.
At the command deck, he placed his palm upon the Shamru-node. A pulse of warmth surged through him, connection sparking, Akromos' heartbeat carried into the stars.
"This will be our ark," he murmured. "And if fate demands, our grave."
The Gifts of the Tribes
Though divided by culture, the tribes of Akromos understood the gravity of Belial's mission. Each offered gifts for the journey.
From Gregrur's icy halls, the Inui presented a master tone, a flute-song capable of summoning water endlessly within the Krausnaut's ecosystem. Without it, thirst would have consumed them before the stars did.
From Truso, saplings were planted aboard, their roots wound into Shamru soil. New life, reminders of home, and sparks to keep the connection alive.
From Kandor, Hako's Funsi wove threads of powdered gold into the ship's hull, to shield it from the storms of space and remind the cosmos that Akromos' skies were gilded.
And from the Shamites, Akhan himself gave the final gift: the forbidden knowledge of creation.
In the citadel's sanctum, Akhan placed his hand upon Belial's brow. Power surged, not fire, not light, but the raw essence of shaping, the primal ability to bend thought into matter. With it, Belial could summon workers if his company failed, craft tools if his stores shattered, even seed life upon barren soil.
But Akhan's eyes were grave. "This gift is not shield but sword. Wield it with care, for creation tempts as much as it saves. Should you grow drunk on it, you may forget Akromos entirely."
Belial nodded, though his jaw clenched. He felt the power burn in him already, whispering of possibility.
The Eve of Departure
The night before departure, Akromos sang.
In the Shamite capital, thousands gathered, their telepathic chorus weaving songs of remembrance into the Shamru's current. In Truso, trees glowed with planted saplings, their light drifting skyward like lanterns. In Gregrur, icy caverns rang with flute-harmonies that echoed across glaciers. In Kandor, the Funsi released waves of golden dust, cloaking the skies in auroras.
All of Akromos watched, and all of Akromos feared.
On the dock of the Krausnaut, Belial stood in silence, his armor heavy with expectation. His generals lined behind him, their eyes fixed forward. The workers filed aboard, a river of bodies pouring into the vessel that would carry them beyond all maps.
Akhan approached, his crown of Shamru-light flickering with strain. "Brother," he said softly. "Do not fail me."
Belial clasped his arm, the gesture both intimate and final. "I will not fail Akromos. Or you."
But Akhan's eyes searched deeper, into the currents of his brother's heart, and saw not certainty but storm.
The Launch
At dawn, Lo curved once more around Makan. Gravity loosened its grip. The moment was ripe.
The Krausnaut's engines roared to life, their hum resonating across the Shamru-link like a heartbeat magnified. Towers trembled, skies split with light, and the vessel lifted, slow at first, then faster, until it pierced the upper atmosphere and entered the void.
On the command deck, Belial stood at the center, his generals at stations, the Shamru-node pulsing before him. Stars stretched across the viewport, endless, merciless.
"Set course," he commanded.
The Shamru-node flickered. Coordinates locked: a distant planet, Halla, in the Sombrero Galaxy, sixty thousand light-years at warp. A beacon of possibility.
"Engage," Belial ordered.
Engines flared, light bent, and the Krausnaut lunged forward into warp. Stars collapsed into streaks, time folded, and Akromos was left behind.
Alone in the Void
As the ship surged, Belial moved among the cryotubes. One by one, workers climbed in, sealed by liquid stasis, their breaths slowing to silence. His generals followed, twenty-nine submitting themselves to frozen slumber. Only Belial remained awake, eyes lingering on the endless dark.
For a moment, he imagined he could hear Akromos behind him, its Shamru-song faint, like a lullaby across distance. His chest tightened. He had sworn to return. He had sworn to save.
And yet, deep within, the new power, creation whispered. You need not return. You can build anew. You can be more than Akhan ever was.
Belial shook his head violently. "No." His voice echoed in the empty chamber. "No."
He climbed into his cryotube, set the sequence, and closed his eyes.
Sleep came. And with it, the first stirrings of dreams not his own.